


Rivals

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Belgium National Team, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 12:03:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14954330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: Mousa and Toby have unknowingly competed for Jan's affections over the years. Because in football, even emotions are something to be contested over.





	Rivals

Mousa didn't dance. 

It wasn't... his thing. 

So, he asked himself, focusing on pressing the panama hat against his forehead. Hand on hip, tripping through zigzags across the floor in time to the honky tonk music playing over speakers in Ben's living room. 

Why was he doing this? 

Following the hologram tripping through the moves a metre before him. 

A chirpy blonde avatar in denim that shouted out encouraging phrases as it glided through the dance steps.

Focus. 

Stick every landing. 

The roar of laughter and applause from everyone fading into silence. Nothing but the shift of shoulders and hips. Heel of trainer clad foot touching the ground briefly, before snapping to toe. Then flat. Pushing his movements to be sharper, quicker, drawing admiring hoots from the rest of the lads. 

Beside him, Sonny gave a slight stumble, hat falling off his head onto the floor. The action drawing a lot of sympathetic awws and tittering, because he was fairly popular. An apologetic smile in Mousa's direction, before he slinked off towards the area where Dele was seated. From the corner of his eye, he saw Dele patting Sonny's shoulder in sympathy. 

The pace of the music kicked up a beat. 

Adjust. 

Dancing no different to motions on the field of play, in a way. You felt when the tempo of a match changed, moved with it. Drew the steps in tighter, made them quicker. Did the swooping movement of panama from head to the base of the spine. 

Spin, throw the hat into the crowd. 

Just like the hologram did. Its image shifting and phasing in and out as upped the tempo.

Spin. Heel. Toe tap. Clap. 

" _Fuuuuuuck!"_ Tripps cried, losing his footing as he came out of the spin. He flapped around awkwardly, hands pinwheeling to keep on balance.  
Brought them up to complete the clap, only to fall into the knot of his teammates on the floor in the corner. The action greeted by howls of laughter from the lads holding him up

Instinct taking over, Tripps raised his hands in supplication towards Ben, as if beseeching a referee.

Ben shook his head from the sidelines, gestured to Tripps to walk. With a huff, Tripps shifted to his knees... And shuffled away.

Delighted whoops and whistles, phone cameras open, recording everything. A sweep of the left foot, a stomp to a flourish and a twang of guitars. 

A half beat, where the song stopped, the silence registered before the claps and congratulations began.

Mousa looked to his left, not surprised to see Toby. 

Toby, dragging at the sweat dewing his brow with the back of his hand. Even with the hat routine, his mini gelled pompadour still shellacked in place. 

Toby caught his eye, sent him a thin smile. 

"Wow," Ben exclaimed, beaming, as he signalled in Eric's direction to turn the hologram off. From the back of the room, Eric nodded with an affirmative shout and turned it off. The action bringing up the lights of the room; less spotlight on them, more diffused. "That was--" he started, and just defeated by trying to explain, cut himself off with a grin. 

"I didn't know you had it in you, Mousa."

Mousa shook his head, tugging at his collar to cool himself down, his thin cotton shirt sticking to skin. Toby and himself still sharing a look before he broke their gaze and said, "Nor did I."

"Mates," Jan's voice came out of nowhere. His arm now a solid, warm weight across Moussa's shoulders, and his lips cold and wet against Mousa's cheek. "You were great!" he enthused, and before Mousa could even lean in, Jan torqued his body in Toby’s direction and pressed his lips against his cheek too. "You two were great."

"It's ahh..." Toby grinned, his face bright from exertions and endorphins. "Honky Tonky, Ben said?" He puffed out his cheeks, his eyes round and blue grey. "Who knew it would be so hard?"

“But you two did it,” Jan said, his voice bubbling with amusement. “It looked like thirsty work though. Let’s have a drink.”

 

In the end, it had been Ben's fault. 

Midweek, that strange time in the football calendar where you mercifully had one match on a Saturday afternoon, and no European or Cup matches in between. Ben decided to have a get-together midweek. 

"Just a small gathering, if you fancy," he'd said, with a roll of his shoulders. "I know you have commitments, so I'm not expecting you to stay long," he finished, a smile flitting around the corners of his mouth. "But if you can stop by..."

"If I can stop by?"

"Bring a bottle."

Not just a party, Mousa had discovered, as Ben plopped a panama hat on his own head. A party with a _theme_. His suspicions confirmed as he noted the hologram at the far end of the room. 

“Ben,” Mousa drawled, “what is this?”

Mousa half expected to be offered food and video games, not, “- a dance off,” Ben explained, in low and persuasive tones. The furniture had been cleared away, leaving an expanse of warm stained wood grain floor underfoot. They needed to start with at least six people, Sonny, Dele, Michel and Tripps volunteered, and would he be interested?

Mousa gave a non committal _hmmm_ as he looked around the room. 

Everyone else either draped on sofas, or seated on the cushions along the wall. 

 

The competition shouldn’t be much different from the Guitar Hero, or even one of those brightly coloured dance mats on the floor, where you hopped and tried to keep up with the colours bouncing to the beat of a song. 

Not this time. Because Ben had stumbled on line dancing. 

“ _Line dancing_?” Jan pulled one of those faces worthy of a comedian: eyes cartoonishly wide, his pout rubbery and exaggerated. 

“Yeah,” Ben said, the stacked panama hats in his hands. “We’re going to do line dancing, and follow Sally-”

“Sally?”

"The hologram," Ben gestured to the flickering hologram floating over the projector. "That’s ... her name. We start off easy, and the moves get harder. We dance and get down the last two, because no one should dance alone.”

“Awww,” Dele mock fluttered his lashes in Ben’s direction, brushing by him on the way to the kitchen towards the back of the house. “How sweet.”

“Shut it, Dele,” Ben said without missing a beat, his gaze not leaving Mousa’s face. “What about you, Mousa? Do you want to give it a go?”

“I...” Mousa started, slipping his hands in the back pockets of his jeans, rocking back on his heels. 

“He doesn’t dance,” and that was Toby, rocking up to them clad in dark short sleeved shirt, tattoos snaking out in shades of black and grey over his biceps and forearms, as if the designs bled from the black of his shirt into varying intensities of greyscale on his skin.

“It’s...” Mousa narrowed his eyes. “Not my thing, no.”

“I wouldn’t mind giving a go myself,” Jan drawled, “but...” his voice trailed off, and everyone knew why. He’d just come off the list of Injury FC, walking around on his ankle again. Next week, he’d be back training on grass, and it wasn’t worth risking. Not that this sort of dancing was dangerous, but you heard stories about players coming off injury being injured again over the stupidest of things. Like tripping over the family dog, or slipping on the side of a pool. 

“I don’t mind dancing on your behalf,” Toby said, turning to Jan. “As long as you back me.”

“‘Course,” Jan nodded in the affirmative. “Always, Toby. Especially now, if you’re going to dance for my honour.”

“Well,” Toby reached out, grabbed one of the straw boaters from Ben’s hands and placed it on his head. “I’ll be number five.”

Mousa raised an eyebrow, shooting a look in Toby’s direction. Toby met it with a smirk, and a slight lift to his chin. 

“I guess,” Mousa slipped his hands out of his pocket, as he too, grabbed for a hat. “I am number six.”

***

“Someone’s got moves,” Jan said later, thumbing at the screen of the phone in his hand. All three of them, Toby, Jan and Mousa tumbled together on the sofa in Ben’s front room. The high from that dance off, leaving the odd lull where the frenzied atmosphere had died down, but it was too early -and rude- to leave.

Mousa leaned into Jan, their shoulders smushed together. The sofa a tight squeeze, their bodies thrumming with heat from the close fit, but he didn't mind, because Jan didn't, draping a hand over his shoulder and allowing Mousa to lean in. His eyes fastened on the screen of the phone, set to landscape. 

As a footballer, and especially under their gaff, Mousa was used to watching himself and his teammates. Studying the geometry of his moves, seeing what he did right, or wrong. It wasn't a hardship to look at his steps now, to note how close he got right following Sally. 

Watching himself following Sally, Mousa had done most things right. No idle boast, just fact. His posture good, his motion fluid. The image on the screen juddered and shook, Jan’s shouting the soundtrack to their dancing. 

_Mousa! Toby!_ Jan’s voice yelling from the sidelines. _Moves!_

Toby, Mousa had to admit, wasn't bad. He didn't showboat. Nor exaggerate steps to draw laughs from the lads. He had the ease and smoothness of it, and the confidence not to rush anything, combined with the innate quickness of mirroring the steps. His head up, eyes searching the crowd, stopping in the direction of the camera. 

Smiled.

Gave the sort of smile that transformed a face. The emotion behind it packing a punch, and even with the jostling of the phone camera, its brilliance undimmed.

“Mous,” Jan said, before Mousa could even -

“You and Toby should probably form a duo or something,” Jan laughed, leaning into the sofa, his hand falling away from Mousa's shoulders.

Toby gave a non committal hmm, his voice friendly and warm enough. His eyes a shadowed grey under lowered lashes. “I’m happy with my lot, thanks.”

***

**-international break 2017**

It wasn't as if they weren't friends, Toby decided, as they all piled into the common room. Most of the players mulling around, falling into groups of threes and fours. 

Toby needed to be alone to reflect for a bit, taking up the sofa all by himself, the early spring sun flooding his neck and shoulders with a pleasant warmth.

In the corner of the rec room, Mousa and Jan talking and laughing, mostly though gestures and smiles, because they had known each other long enough to speak and wink in a sort of shorthand. Breaking off when greeted by other people from the selection, but still catching each other’s eye. A smile and a nod to Eden. A longer conversation with Michy. 

But th- 

“Hey, is the seat free?”

Toby lifted his gaze, titled his head until he looked in the face of Romelu Lukaku. 

“Yeah, it's free,” he said, making space for Rom to sit down. A unit of a forward, powerful enough to give defenders a hard time. Combative and rambunctious on field, but a quiet and cultured presence off it. 

Rom settled in, beside him, the cushions shifting under his weight, smart phone in hand. 

“How goes it,” he started, and it wasn't a question as much as conversation, “with Tottenham and the Champion's League.”

Toby rested his ankle on his knee, sending Rom a sharp look. “You're not at Everton anymore,” he pointed out. “You should know how it goes. How it's changed you.”

Rom didn't say a word, his eyes heavy lidded, light hitting his high cheekbones. Ever since going to Man United, his confidence had turned into an outright swagger. Romelu had embraced the profile of being a Manchester United player, and it had settled him. Made him more confident around the players from the bigger clubs: Chelsea, Manchester City and... Tottenham. 

Not that Rom would ever admit it. 

“You’re over here, like a...” Romelu frowned. “Billy no mates,” he finished, using that oddly specific British idiom. “You three blind mice decided to split up.”

“Three blind mice. Really.”

Romelu grinned, white teeth brilliant against dark skin, and there was no malice in it. “You are all usually together, but not so much now. Is there anything wrong?”

“No,” Toby said.

***

**2012**

**Hippy fish, Zandvoort: 20k from Amsterdam, Netherlands**

"You're leaving," Toby said, looking at Jan across the small, square, wooden table.

Jan nodded, the shaft light from the skylight turning his hair the colour of straw, and his eyes a deeper blue.

"Yeah," Jan said, drumming his fingers on the bare wooden table before him. The menus cleared because their waitress had already stopped by, taking food and drink orders. Leaving them with nothing but sparkling water. They’d turned down all offers of starters, preferring to wait on the main course instead. 

Toby sipped at his water, and pulled a face. "But... England?"

Jan answered with a jerk of his shoulders.

"Ajax is..." he started, his forefinger tracing the lip of the glass. "Well."

Well.

Not that Jan needed to say it. 

Although winning titles with Ajax was good, and flattering on one’s resume, bigger leagues beckoned. 

In the Premier League and La Liga, you had four automatic spots for the Champions League _alone_. As well as spots for Europa league. You had the stadia, the fans, the top managers and players. You also had the option of demanding more than the million euro salary cap that Ajax had to stick to. 

Either way you looked at it, outside of the Eredivisie offered ... _more_.

Toby wasn’t one to begrudge Jan his ambitions. 

Especially since Toby stoked the fires of his own ambitions himself, his agent making encouraging noises regarding a certain club in Madrid. He’d liked the coach, and although the club wasn’t _los blancos_ it was still...more. 

Like everyone else in their team, Jan had fielded offers. Weighing the pros and cons, listening to offers from other clubs, and Tottenham seemed to be best choice. 

A respectable club in a top European league: based in London, wages over the salary cap, and- most importantly - a chance to play in the first eleven from the get go in his favoured position. 

That being said, he’d miss Jan, miss his steady presence around the club and on the field. 

The laughter that came to him readily, shaped his face into something soft and boyish. The shared victories that made it sweeter, with him holding up _de schaal_ to their supporters at Het Museumplein. 

Mic in hand, as he stood on the stage, clad in the Ajax colours of red and white, form washed by spot lights as he lead the cheers. Prancing and jumping from left to right on the stage, the lead singer of a twenty three man group. His hands swinging left and right like a windshield in full flow, as he lead the heave of Ajax supporters into cheers, and screams. Before them, oceans and mountains of people with red and white rivers of fabric. The party continued off the stage, into an area more private for all the players and staff. Beer fizzing and splashing everywhere, their skins sticky with it as they hugged each other. Their cheeks dragging and abrading against each other's skins. Jan’s face so close, it eclipsed everything else in the room. 

They had had good times, and Toby had been in football long enough to know that all hot streaks always came to an end. Toby had no bitterness towards Jan, he never could. 

Only memories warm enough having him reaching to raise his glass in a toast.

“And also,” Jan smiled, and there was genuine warmth in it. “Mousa will also be at Tottenham, so...”

“Ahhh,” Toby nodded, forgoing the toast to just sip from his glass instead. Swallowed. 

“Hmm. Transfering from Fulham, then?”

“Yeah. Everything’s worked out. So, I won’t be lonely.”

Toby did not roll his eyes. Although he came close. 

“You won’t be lonely, _Jantje_ ,” he said at last, stroking along the side of his glass. 

Jan was too outstanding a person to be really _alone_. He’d been a good captain and an even greater teammate. 

“And what about you,” Jan said, elbow on the table, the hairs on his forearm turning into the colour of pale sand. “What are you up to? Do you think ---?”

Toby placed a finger against his lips and shook his head. He didn’t want to jinx it, and Jan - because he was Jan- understood. 

**September, 2014**

“Hey, Southampton.”

“That’s my new name now?” 

“ _Toby, Toby, Tobeeeeeee_ ,” Jan sang off key, his voice over the tinny loudspeaker _painful_ , but oh so welcome. It was nice to be in the same league with Jan once more -even if they weren’t on the same team. 

Still, Toby rolled his eyes, cursing that stupid Dutch speaking children’s programme that used his name in that terrible song. 

“Oh Gott,” he laughed, because it was Jan’s voice on the line. Restless, he padded around in his new digs in sock clad feet. His temporary home a hotel in the centre of Southampton, overlooking The Solent (according to his phone). 

On a clear day, the google guide said, you could see the Isle of Wight in the distance.

Whatever that was. 

Anyway, it wasn’t a clear day. 

It wasn’t even _daylight_ , outside. 

The twilight pressing against the windows turning them into semi-mirrored surfaces, Toby’s reflection showing him as he was right now; clad in shirtsleeves, highly distressed jeans and socked feet. Phone pressed his cheek, and about two weeks worth of unshaven facial hair. 

“You’re in England,” and this was the voice of Christian. 

An octave lighter, the notes softer than Jan’s. 

“Christian!” Toby exclaimed, heartened by this new development. “ _Kom op, Jan, doe hem ann_.”

“ _Wacht_ ,” Jan tittered, and in a blink, going from voice to picture and voice. The camera shuddered, a brief glimpse of Jan’s chin and nostril, a flash of light and ceiling, before it settled down. 

Jan’s face on the camera, phone turned vertically. Toby grinned, seeing his friend, and missing him. Although, It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen Jan on international duty, but those were few and far between. A far cry from seeing each other everyday on the training pitch. 

“ _Even kijken_ ,” and that was Christian. Jan rolling his eyes and turning the phone to landscape, only for Christian’s face to pop up. 

“Toby!” Christian greeted, all smiles and warm cheer. “How are you? You were playing it dangerous, signing on deadline day.”

“I’m fine,” Toby grinned. 

“Southampton, eh. Permanent?”

“No,” Toby breathed, rocking back on his heels, one hand gingerly patting at his hair, the other hand with the phone lifted high enough for Jan to see his face head on. “On loan from Atletico.”

“Hmm,” Christian nodded, his eyes wide, grey blue and tilted upwards at their edges like a _Tandenfee_. He hadn’t seen Christian in a while, but he still looked the same. Sandy hair in a tuft of blonde on his head like Hergé’s _Tintin_. Face pale, with blonde fuzz. Flush high on his cheeks as if he’d been outside running, or reaction to being teased about something near and dear to him. 

“Hmmm,” Toby hummed an answer, not wanting to talk about it. 

“The point is,” Jan said, dragging the conversation from murky waters, “you’re in England. You’re in the Premier League. I mean, it’s not like all of us from Ajax getting together again, but ---” he paused, his eyes drifting off screen into movement somewhere in the room. 

Jan’s eyes widening, before squinting into amusement. His smile sly as he stroked his dark ginger coloured stubble with his free hand. His gaze still on whomever was off camera. 

“Hey,” his grin wreathed his face. “ _Ik dacht dat je niet zou komen._ ”

“Settlers of Catan, _hoe kan ik dat niet? Tegen wie praat je?_?”

Toby’s mood deflated somewhat as Jan made a space on the butter coloured sofa beside him. Knowing who it was before his face peeked into view. 

Mousa. 

Sleepy eyed, looking as if he’d just woken up, with deep dimples and a lazy grin. His hair a black riot of curls, the lower half of his face covered by a close cropped beard. 

“Toby,” Mousa greeted, with a hint of surprise and a smile. “Hey, I heard about you being at ...” he snapped his fingers absently, as if trying to call the name to memory. “Southampton, right?”

“Yeah,” Toby said, trying not to roll his eyes at the slight. “Right.”

“And you have a new gaff, _ja_.”

“Gaff?” 

“ _Trainer_ ,” Jan explained. “You have a new trainer. Pochettino, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Toby nodded. “He’s also from La Liga. Managed Espanyol, but you know, La Liga and the Premier League are two different things... but, I’m promised play time, which is the most important.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Christian said, his voice an echo of agreement. “That’s why I chose Tottenham in the end. Because of play time.” Christian too polite to name the clubs that he’d turned down. 

“And how’s Tottenham?”

“It’s Tottenham,” Christian said, his face floating to the edge of the screen, because Jan and Mousa’s faces crowded out the rest. 

“Well, whenever you’re in London next, we should meet up,” and this was Mousa, and Toby only said, “sure.”

“We going to start setting up now,” Christian pushed himself off the sofa. “ _Tot ziens_ , Toby. I hope we see each other soon. And I don’t mean on the field.”

“ _Tot ziens_ , Chris,” Toby replied, warmth flooding through his voice, because he had always appreciated Christian. 

“Settlers of Catan,” Jan sighed, in the irritable tones of someone who was done waiting. “Nacer is running late, but he should be here in ten minutes. So... “

“You're busy,” Toby puffed out his cheeks. “I still have yet to unpack, and --” he gingerly touched the nape of his neck. “I’ll let you go.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Jan said, “even though you’re not _here_ ,” he patted the now empty seat beside him. 

“Later, Toby,” Mousa grinned, dimples deepening. 

“Mousa,” he said, before Jan clicked off.

The room now tumbled into silence. Mouth twisted into a pout, and not knowing why he felt out of sorts, Toby threw his phone on the sofa. 

Might as well go take a shower.

***

**2014**

“Toby is here!” Jan breathed as soon as they’d rang off, slowly spinning around the living room, his arms outstretched. 

Early September, and the evenings still long, the sun throwing shadows through the glass windows in the conservatory, flooding the room in light. The table set up with the game in question, Settlers of Catan. Hexagonal sides, with cards, and tabs. Chairs set up just so, and ready. 

The morning training now done, and the rest of the day theirs, and for Jan, there was only one thing for it. 

Only one more thing could crowd out Jan’s impatience at Nacer not showing up on time, and that was Toby. Even his name was cause for his face to brighten, for his teeth to worry his lower lip in thought. 

“I wish he’d had time to come up here before --” he cut himself off with a rueful grin. “But he’s at a new club and with a new coach so...”

“Southampton,” Mousa pointed out. 

“Yeah,” Jan said. “It would be nice to have the Ajax lads back together -” 

Mousa rolled his eyes. 

“Present company excluded,” Jan closed the distance between them, threw an arm around Mousa’s shoulder. Pressed a kiss against his temple with an exaggerated _Mwah_ , more for effect than affection. Mousa laughed, his hand resting against Jan’s forearm. 

“But Toby is ...” Jan nodded to himself sharply. “ _Un bon gars_. I know he was disappointed with his time at Atleti, but I’m sure he’ll do great here.”

Mousa only nodded. 

You couldn’t lie about Toby’s qualities, especially on the field. His positioning out of this world, and he was like... a blanket when it came to errant attackers, smothering the sting of shots. 

As for Toby the person, you couldn’t really hold him at arm’s length either, but- 

“Hey!” and that was Christian’s voice, floating from the front room. “Nacer!”

“ _Finally_ ,” Jan huffed, dropping his hand and tearing himself away from Mousa. “Nace is here, and now we can begin.”

***

Training ground; Bordeaux , June 2016

“God,” Jan breathed, limbs spread out like a starfish, sun flooding all over him. Toby gently toed at his side with the point of his trainer. Jan’s only response being, _hmmm_. His eyes shutting the world out, and even though he’d slapped himself down with sunblock, his nose and cheeks coloured by the sun. 

“You called?”

“Ha,” Jan slitted an eye open, and on a huff, threw an arm over his face. “Don’t tell me. Courtois and KBD squabbling again?”

Toby plopped himself down on the grass beside his friend. Early morning, a fine day for training. Jan tended to slip out to training earlier than everyone else, so that he could get some peace and quiet so that he could sleep, he would joke. 

Jan was right about the peace and quiet. Their tidy digs in Bordeaux with the leafy hedges, and even, green flat playing surface was ideal for a doze, as much as to train. It felt like summer: with the full bloom of the sun’s warmth, the blue skies and the dazzling shades of green from the rains in late May. Still enough to hear the low trill of bird song, and the air fresh enough to have the smell of flowers. 

“No,” Toby finally answered, stretching his legs before him. “They are fine. The matter is done. Rom though...”

“He really needs to get over at being Everton,” Jan responded sleepily. “Just because it isn’t a ‘big team’ doesn’t mean--”

“But he’s the best player on his team.”

“And he scores goals, and he hustles, Big Rom. He’s fine. He’ll be fine. He’s too ambitious not to be fine. He wouldn’t have been called up if he weren’t. Do you want me to have a word?”

Toby sighed, looking at the practice nets and cones set out in the mid distance. “No,” he said, “I want you to do my press conference for me.”

“Ugh,” Jan said, his sandy lashes still resting on his cheeks, eyes still closed as he pulled his legs towards his torso. “You are on your own with that one.”

“ _Jan_.”

“ _Toby_ ,” Jan repeated in the same needling voice.

“What should I say,” Toby sighed, “I mean, we’re winning, but --”

“But..” Jan said, as he opened his eyes, his blue-grey stare fixed on Toby. 

Toby opened his mouth to speak, and nothing came out. 

Jan not saying a word, letting the quiet build, and settle. Giving Toby the space to sit with his mood. For his misgivings to move from abstract to the formality of words. 

“We’re not playing well,” he admitted finally. “You can see it, you can feel it. We’re playing as individuals, instead of a team. But--” he inhaled sharply, exhaled loudly. “But you can’t say that, not at a presser.”

“No,” Jan said, “you can’t. But they are going to ask about the mood in the camp and our chances of success. We could be worse.”

Pause. 

“We could be England."

Toby thought about their Spurs teammates, and as much as he liked them all, he cackled. 

“Jan,” he shook his head, after his laughing jag, collapsing on the sprawl of lawn that didn’t itch. He inched closer to Jan, their foreheads almost touching. Briefly, Toby thought about his hair, let the worry go. Fingers linked across his chest as the last rumbles of laughter left him. “I love you, mate.”

“Not enough to do my presser the other day, though,” Jan pointed out. 

“Not really, no.”

“You and Mous’,” Jan shook his head, “are a pair.”

Not many people on the team liked doing pressers, because really, what was there to say? You had to go into a match thinking that you’d have to win but -- everyone had their jobs, this was one of his.

“Fine,” Toby said at last. “I’ll go, and I’ll do it.”

“I’ll speak to Rom. I mean, I’m sure Vincent has already spoken with him, but-” Jan cut himself off as they heard the rumble of the rest of the team coming out _en masse_. Mousa strangely in front, rubbing at his eyes as if he’d just woken up from sleep.

Jan rolled on his stomach, pushed himself up to his feet, dusting off the seat of his shorts, and tugging at the hem of his shirt in place. Switched on and locked in to the beginning of training. He turned around, offering Toby his hand. 

Toby grabbed at Jan’s arm, using it to haul himself to his feet. 

***

Toby never liked pressers.

Didn’t see the point of them, really. He sat at the table, cheek squished into the palm of his hand, elbow on the table. Bored, he rubbed at his eyes, as he watched the room filling up before him. Normally, the pressers were designed to have all press there, both media and printed, but today was a bumper day. 

Belgium vs Wales, and well, what was there to say? 

Thought about this morning and Jan, and something inside him stilled. 

The questions weren’t as annoying as he thought, and some of the reporters actually helped him out. Tugging at the memories of plying his trade in Germinal Beerschot and Ajax, and how was it playing beside Jan Vertonghen at Tottenham Hotspur? 

“It’s good, eh?” Toby smiled, reaching for, and playing with the mouth of the bottle of water left there for him to sip at, just in case of dry throat. “I have no problem with Jan, and he has none with me. “

“So, if you were to leave Tottenham, would you try to take him with you?”

Toby grinned at the thought, tugging at his lower lip with his teeth. ”I would, why not?”

“And this game with Wales...?”

“If we play our usual game,” Toby said carefully, “we should give ourselves a chance.”

**International break 2017**

“World Cup, 2018,” Mousa said, looking up from his phone screen at Toby. His dark eyes glittering with amusement. “Do you think you’ll go?”

“I don’t know,” Toby replied, “do you?”

The same day Rom had tried to be an Agony Aunt, but ended up singing _Three Blind Mice_ in sporadic outbursts as if fallen to a sort of Tourettes, because he’d been around Everton’s community outreach programmes for far too long. 

They were in the players’ lounge. After training, and games. It was too early to turn in for bed- it was still twilight- but too late to go into town. 

In a way, International football was more like a European cup campaign. You travelled to various countries, and tried to guard yourself against boredom, exhaustion, and being pissed off by everyone else. 

Especially after their Euro campaign in 2016, Toby really tried not to allow himself to pissed off by everyone else. 

“Yeah,” he said at last, looking down at Mousa. Mousa seated in the most comfortable sofa in the rec room. Toby too practical to shun this part of the sofa, despite this strange tension Mousa and him suffered from at times. “Can I--?”

“Of course,” Mousa patted the area next to him. “ _Toby_ ,” he said, and it was shades of exasperation and admonishment. Toby took the hint, and collapsed on the sofa beside him.

On Mousa’s phone screen, emails back and forth - and not about the World Cup.

“I bought a small inn, and am doing it up,” Mousa explained. “Well, not _me_ , but-" and he talked about his project manager, and plans. His engagement with the local council, and how it affected what he could or couldn't do. His voice low and soothing, the topics interesting and not football. Toby’s head resting against the sofa ,his eyelids heavy from being entirely too comfortable. 

_Why do you think, we’re like this?_ he wanted to ask. 

How they were friends, at times relaxed as this - Mousa’s phone in one hand, and his other arm gathering Toby close. At other times, giving and getting enough needle from each other to edge. As if Southampton hadn’t been a team in the Premier League too. As if Toby’d tied himself to a middling second tier outfit when he left La Liga to come to the Premier League three seasons ago. 

Or when he rocked up to Tottenham Hotspur, after his disappointment of two seasons with Atletico Madrid, but a happier time at Southampton, Mousa greeted him with raised eyebrows. 

_You’re here,_ he had said, in the quiet way he had about him. _Waarom duurde het zolang?_

Toby didn’t ask, because he knew why. He also knew that in matters like these, they tended to spiral inward, not outward. 

Dragging both of them further into this strange orbit, their gravity askew, and them unable to stop their collision no matter how far off it seemed for now. 

So, Toby told himself, he’d be ready for it.

***

**International break Spring, 2018**

The best part of international break, Mousa told himself, was actually doing social things with the rest of the team. 

Serving burgers with Rom and Jan to unsuspecting fans of The Red Devils at a McDonald's in Brussels' city centre. Doing TV shorts with Jan and Nacer, making phone calls to randomly chosen supporters, Mousa’s chemistry with Jan off the charts, because Jan made everything so _easy_. 

“Your hundredth cap,” Mousa said to Jan, in front of the cameras at the camp. A special occassion indeed, special enough for the Belgian FA to bring in cameras and do a featurette on Jan's achievement. 

Countdown to World Cup 2018, and the whole publicity machinery in full gear. 

“Might be,” Jan sent Mousa a fleeting grin. In the last four years or so, Jan had gotten comfortable enough with himself on camera enough for him to make jokes at his own expense. 

The cameras and attendant personalities all there; lights switched on. Everyone else in their team kit, seated on the grass, their faces turned towards Jan. Even Eden - who could be bitingly sarcastic as the day was long - actually respectful this time. Not sending pointed snark Jan’s way. 

“Honestly,” Mousa returned the grin, scratching at the space behind his ear, focusing on all Jan. “When we started out at Beerschot - did you ever think we’d be here?”

“ _Nee_ ,” Jan grinned. “I mean, who does? You just follow the ball, and --” he stopped, pulling another one of those rubberised faces he tended to do when momentarily overwhelmed, or at a loss for words. 

“Like, with you, Mous, you’re here too. And --” he stopped, eyes searching for and resting on - “Toby,” he finished, gesturing him forward. “I mean... what are the odds that we’d start from Beerschot and now arrive here? Playing for Tottenham Hotspur. Together?”

“Yeah,” Mousa said, throat suddenly dry as Toby came into view. His gaze warm and on Jan, and when Toby's eyes shifted, Mousa swore he felt the throb of emotion all around. 

It was crazy, looking at Jan and seeing the boy and the man at the same time, of a life _lived_ and living. 

On the cusp of having one hundred caps for his country, and just being around, being reliable, and always getting better. 

How to even say this, and he couldn’t. 

Especially when Toby snatched at it, and made the sentiment better. 

“No one deserves it more,” Toby said, elbows on knees, all the cameras swinging to him. Mousa couldn’t blame them, because Toby had a way of speaking that came across as urgent and true. His Flemish accent giving the words a bit more weight than they probably would have. It didn’t hurt that he knew how to use his voice, to control the emotion he would tap into. 

“You’ve always been here, always... answering the call. A true red devil, in terms of heart and trickery. But forever a saint when you’ve needed to be. It’s always been you,” he finished, his eyes shining with the belief as he finished his point. “It will always be you... Super Jan.”

***

Jan now whisked away by the cameras, and everyone else drifted off to do their own tasks, leaving both Mousa and Toby behind.

Both of them still seated on the grass, Toby staring out in the distance, face soft and thoughtful. Mousa inhaled, held his breath, counted to four and exhaled. Toby still not moving, still staring out. 

“That was--” Mousa started. “A really good speech.”

Toby raised his head, lifted his eyebrows, the action making his eyes half mast and bored. “Thanks,” he said, his voice as tentative as Mousa’s own. 

“We,” Mousa started, “might not be together after this year.” Which was true, with various developments around their camps and such like. “So if we’re not--”

“Why are we like this, Mousa?” Toby asked, shifting his body to fully face him. 

“Like--?”

“Like _this_ ,” Toby waved his hand in a vague gesture, before allowing it to drop on the grass between them. “We’re friends, we’ve always been friends, but at times, it feels like we’re not. And it’s not as if we shouldn’t ---” he stopped, lashes fluttering against his cheeks for a minute, before lifting his eyes. “I mean... Jan was your friend first.”

Mousa tucked his tongue in the side of his mouth for a moment. Ran it along the backs of his teeth while he tried to sort out his thoughts in some semblance of order. 

“I don’t think friendship works like that,” he finally said, voice low and authoritative. 

“You and Jan and Christian were at Ajax for almost three seasons. You have shared a lot of things together, you saw each other every day. Not to mention being called to the selection. And now both of your time with Spurs... “ Mousa stopped, briefly looking out in front of him. No matter where in the world you were, training camps still had practice nets, cones and practice mannequins. 

“As if you haven’t been with us too.”

“Different positions,” Mousa smiled, his eyes warm and kind. “I’m not a part of the Centre backs union.”

Toby frowned for a nano second, before he dipped his head, unable to hide the grin which tugged at his mouth. 

“Toby...” Mousa started, stopped. 

Thought about it, and tried again. “You’re no less a friend to Jan than I am. Anyone who says anything else is a liar or a fool.”

“I love him,” Toby confessed, with a shrug of shoulders. “And not in _that_ way- not that there’s anything wrong with that - because... " he stopped. Cleared his throat. Pushed the words out. "I _could_. It is a kitten's jump. In the way of just-” he stopped, his cheeks aflame at the confession. “Well.”

“I know.” 

“And you?” 

“He’s _Jantje_ ,” Mousa admitted, because any other answer would be a lie. 

By saying the diminutive of Jan’s name, Mousa unable to do anything but _be_ open and delicate. 

Of seeing his friend’s face in his mind, and at the end of a confession from _Toby_ , one of the blokiest blokes around. 

“In a lot of ways,” Mousa said after a while, trying to pick out the perfect way to put this across, but unable to say it plainer than this. “He’s the best thing about you, Toby. He makes you do more, and better. He’s--”

At his pause, Toby raised his head, the expression on his face naked and wondering. Mousa shifted closer, holding his hand out. 

“And he’s the same for me. If we suffer between us, it’s probably because we think about him too much.”

Toby lifted his head, closed his eyes against the sun for a moment. 

“I can’t believe-” his voice trailed off, as he huffed out a laugh. That they’d lived in this strange flux of affection and needle for all these years, and -- 

He looked at Mousa, his skin a deeper brown from the sun, him in the same training kit with shorts like Toby himself. Both of them alone in this part of the training ground, having a heart to heart over Jan. But, _of course_ it would be because of Jan. 

“I can’t believe you had a dance off when you can’t dance for toffee,” Toby finished, using a phrase he’d heard from Christian of all people. 

“Excuse me?” Mousa laughed, all dimples and good cheer. He pushed himself up to his feet, and held out his hand to Toby.  
Toby, not even thinking about it, grabbed at Mousa’s hand and hauled himself up. 

“Who finished at the end with you?” Mousa questioned, scandalised. “It wasn’t Tripps, that’s for sure.”

Toby folded his arms across his chest, and shook his head. Pretending as if Mousa had not been there. 

“Whatev---” he started, only to crack up as he felt the weight of Mousa’s chest against his back, his arms warm, solid and wrapped around him. Toby unable to do anything but laugh, taking two steps forward to accommodate Mousa’s weight and momentum. Unable to do nothing but grab at Mousa, still unable to do nothing but laugh and laugh. 

And in that second, whatever jittery edges of their rivalry sloughed away. 

“I--” Toby started, only to jerk his head upwards at a sharp piercing whistle from the end of the field. 

Both of them froze in position for a split second. 

Mousa’s arms still pinning Toby’s arms together, their faces pressed against each other’s as they looked up. 

“OI! Mous’! Toby!” and that was Jan, waving both of his arms and jumping up and down, his actions more of a thirteen year old than someone just hitting thirty. Put his hands to his mouth and yelled: “WHAT ARE YOU TWO EVEN DOING? WE’VE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU FOR TEN MINUTES NOW!”

Toby and Mousa shared a sidelong glance, a mixture of affection for and exasperation at their friend.

Mousa broke their embrace. 

Stepped forward and left to one side. 

Put his hands at his mouth, and shouted: “WE’RE COMING, HUNDRED CAPS!” 

“MR ONE HUNDRED CAPS TO YOU!” 

“It’s going to be a long evening,” Toby mock groused, as they started their brisk walk towards Jan, kicking into a brisk jog. 

“Yeah,” Mousa agreed, with a thoughtful smirk, arms pumping smoothly. “But not long enough.”

Toby nodded, because Mousa was right. 

There would never be enough time when it came to Jan. 

Especially not when he waited at the edge of the field for them both, half bouncing on his toes. Threw an arm around each of their shoulders as they walked instep towards the dining room for food. 

Their gazes snagging each other’s over Jan’s bowed head at the table, as they settled down to their meal, and both of them shared a small, secret smile. 

They weren’t rivals anymore. 

FIN.

**Author's Note:**

> **Notes: Thanks to Ab and T, and Ajax YouTube**


End file.
